


three and thirty candles

by Magali_Dragon



Series: one shots and other drabbles [8]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Birthday, Birthday Fluff, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, No Plot/Plotless, Targlings (ASoIaF), jon's version of sixteen candles, season eight never happened because why would it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:01:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22024501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magali_Dragon/pseuds/Magali_Dragon
Summary: It's Jon's nameday and no one remembers.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: one shots and other drabbles [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1567705
Comments: 15
Kudos: 317





	three and thirty candles

**Author's Note:**

> I am trying to work through my writer's block, so here is a plotless piece of nothing. Happy belated birthday to Jon Snow's real-life portrayer, I figured Jon needs a birthday fic. Except no one remembers...oh well, he doesn't mind.

It wasn’t like he had a lot of good ones in the past, to be honest they tended to go by like any other day, except perhaps he’d get an extra sticky cinnamon bun on his plate in the morning instead of it going to Robb or Arya or Rickon. Sometimes he would get the chance to actually _beat_ Robb in training. Or maybe he’d get a new tunic or jerkin instead of the hand-me-downs or the used ones he normally did. Once, when he was small, Ned took him to the waterfalls to hunt _just the two of them._ It had been probably the greatest gift of all.

Compared to Robb or Sansa or his other siblings, who got extra sticky buns, a cake at supper, sometimes even a great feast depending on the year. They got new horses, clothing, swords, books, whatever they requested it was theirs. Catelyn doted on her children. The only one who was ever disappointed in their name day gifts was Arya and that was because she never wanted the dresses, embroidery, or other _girly_ things that her parents gifted her, preferring a bow and quiver set or a knife.

He never celebrated name days on the Wall, he was just honestly glad that he was still there breathing. Then he died. And he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to consider a name day then. The day that he’d always used as a child or the one where a red witch brought him back from a dark abyss of nothing post-murder?

He’d posited this upon his wife, the first name day they were together. “I don’t know if it’s real,” he’d muttered to her. “It’s the day you were born right? Well I was born twice.”

“And so was I, once when I killed my mother clawing from her body and the second when I walked from the flames.” She had studied him then, before beaming. “Then you get two name days!”

Of course, she would see it as a positive, he had thought with a small smile. That was the other thing. His name day now meant the day that his mother died. The mother he never knew, who died birthing him. _How am I supposed to celebrate that?_

As a King, it meant name day celebrations were an important event. In the past they had been. He did not think they needed to be with him, but for his first nameday with her, the Queen had demanded a feast in celebration. Just their close allies, she’d said. She brought everyone to Dragonstone, toasted him with Northern ale brought down for the occasion, and even presented him with a cake she’d had baked, with candles set in it that he was supposed to blow out, as was apparently custom in Volantis, where she had celebrated a few of her name days as a child.

He knew it was important for her, so he did as she bid. There was the one day where they’d gone riding, flying the dragons as far North as they dared, before landing them by a hot spring and they’d made love under the open sky all day long. That had probably been one of his favorites.

And then there was the day where he had not even realized it was his name day until she had nudged him awake, whispering that she was so sorry she did not get him a gift. He did not think it mattered, because two days before she had given him the greatest gift of all, his sweet daughter, who at that moment was asleep in his arms, suckling on his finger. 

Namedays were not the most important thing for him. Sansa had always cried when someone forgot to wish her ‘happy nameday’ as a child, Arya had always griped, and Robb had tried to share some of his spoils with his bastard brother who never got anything. He did not want jousts, feasts, or anyone to go out of their way just for him. 

Except today it would be nice if someone _remembered._

It should not have bothered him. Given his history. At Winterfell and all that. Except he’d gotten used to his wife at least waking him up with kisses all over his face and _other parts_ of his body, before sweeping him off on some sort of plan for the day. 

This year was different.

He’d woken up, not with kisses, but with her crying that she did not want to go to Meereen the following week, she wanted to stay with their daughter, because she was missing everything, she was a terrible mother, she was a terrible queen, and generally sobbing in a fit of rare self-pity. Since she was never like that, he’d immediately awoken and comforted her, leading her to a hot bath to soothe her nerves. 

“I’ll see to Lyella,” he assured her, kissing the top of her silver curls, which had almost sunk entirely beneath the surface of the steaming bath. 

She sniffed. “Okay.”

“You just rest.”

“I am so sorry Jon; I just do not know what has gotten into me.”

It was too much work, she was just putting too much on herself, trying to be the perfect everything. He kissed her head again and left her to her bath, re-entering their sleep chambers, where a couple of her Dothraki maids were already rearranging the bed covers. He told them to leave the queen be for some time, she was resting in the bath, and they nodded, only snickering and rolling their eyes once at his passable Dothraki. 

He huffed, leaving their chambers, thinking he was not as terrible as he used to be in the language, exiting into the corridor where Grey Worm was waiting. “ _Issa dārys._ ”

They exchanged morning pleasantries, walking off down the long corridors of Dragonstone, the long-ago despair and melancholy of the place now offset by the dozens of lit torches, open chamber doors with curtains thrown wide to expose the many windows and balconies that looked out upon the sea and sound. He was about to say something about how it was such a nice morning, maybe they should practice fighting later, when he tripped on something that came flying out of one of the chamber doors. “Seven hells,” he cursed, turning to look back at the object. 

“Sorry Papa!” 

He knelt, lifting up the toy wagon, chuckling and handing it to his daughter, who came running out, a harried Missandei hurrying after her. He swung his sweet child up into the air, setting her on his hip and handed her back the toy. “Aren’t you supposed to be in lessons?” he teased.

“So sorry Your Grace,” Missandei said, sighing. She shook her head, muttering. “We were _trying_ to get there.”

“Papa can I play with you today?” his Lyella chirped. She had just celebrated her fifth nameday and like most children her age, would rather be outside in the fresh air than sitting in the library with scrolls and quill, learning her letters. As she was learning them in three separate languages, he knew she _really_ did not want to be inside. 

He kissed the top of her dark head, flyaway strands already making their way from the braids that Missandei wrestled the wayward curls into each morning. The poor woman deserved a break, he thought, glancing at her as she stole a quick look at Grey Worm, who was smiling, trying not to let him see their affection. He chuckled; who was he to prevent them from spending their morning together? 

Besides, it was his nameday. He really did _not_ want to spend it in the Chamber of the Painted Table, as his daughter did not want to spend hers in the library. Plus, he was the King. “You know, I could use some help today.” He glanced at the aides, smiling. “Why don’t you guys spend the morning together? I’ll come find you later.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Missandei said, before Grey Worm had a chance to protest. She grabbed his hand, tugging the guard off down the corridor with a giggle. 

He kissed Lyella’s head, his daughter’s violet eyes narrowed in a furrow. “What’s wrong?”

“Why are they being weird?”

“It’s called love.”

“Love is gross.”

“Love is not gross.”

“Well boys are gross.” She sniffed. “And you and _Mai_ are gross when you kiss and stuff.”

He pursed his lips at her, making loud, obnoxious kissing sounds, which had her squealing and struggling to get down, laughing as he dropped her to the floor, running after her to the Chamber of the Painted Table, where he found Davos sitting at his seat with a book in his hands, a few scrolls set before him. He waved his hand when the man made a move to stand. “Don’t worry about it, the Queen is taking a morning rest.” He ruffled Lyella’s hair and she jumped onto the table, trampling over Dorne on her way to the Crownlands, where she pointed at the image King’s Landing. “This place stinks.”

“That it does,” Davos agreed. He smiled politely at him. “Your Grace.”

“Ser Davos.” He smiled briefly. He was not sure why he was expecting anything else. He frowned, Davos simply waiting for instruction. He nodded to Lyella. “Come now, we’ve told Davos the plans. Let’s go find something to break my fast, huh?”

“Papa what day is it?” she suddenly asked.

He smiled, about to answer that it was his nameday, when Davos answered for him. “It is the sixth day of the week, Your Grace.”

“Oh. Can we have lemon cakes then?”

“Uh…sure.” He really did not like lemon cakes, but whatever his daughter wanted. On her nameday a few days before they had had lemon cakes. As well as a cake made with a special powder that came from ground up seeds from Essos. Dany called it _cacao_. It was rather sweet and had driven Lyella rather mad for the rest of the day before she passed out into a rather coma-like sleep in the evening.

She beamed, lifting her hands up for him to help her off the table. “Yay! Let us have lemon cakes!”

Since he never got lemon cakes on his nameday as a child, he supposed it was something, he figured, racing after his daughter to the kitchens.

~/~/~/~

“Ghost.”

His wolf lifted one eyelid, revealing a ruby red eye. He moved, sitting up on the stone floor and thumping his tail for a moment as Jon knelt to scratch his old wolf’s ears, smiling down at him. He chuckled when Ghost licked his hand, tail speeding up when the scratches hit a particularly itchy spot. 

“You like that huh?” he mumbled. He glanced around the wide terrace where Ghost had been sunning, looking out over the cliffside where the dragons nested when they visited. He noted that Rhaegal was preening, fluttering his emerald wings so the gold flecks along the tips of his scales caught in the sunlight. He shook his head, smiling at the dragon, who whipped his head around to nip at his brother, Viserion screeching when he’d been disturbed for what he viewed was no good reason. 

All the while their _older_ brother, if only because he was the biggest and acted the most mature as their mother’s favorite, shook his head from side to side, screeching at them both and then falling over the side of the cliff to swoop over the beach, before taking off straight for the clouds. 

He looked down at Ghost. “You know it’s my nameday.”

Ghost yawned.

“Not that it’s a big deal.” Surely _someone_ should have remembered. He leaned on the stone wall, watching the dragons. He sighed. “I am three and thirty years.” It seemed like he was older. He felt ancient. He frowned. “Or perhaps I am only ten years of age.” If they were going off his _second_ date of birth. He chuckled at the thought. “Seven hells, I feel a hundred.”

Maester Aemon lived to be over one hundred years. If he recalled there were a couple of Targaryens that lived to see generations and generations of their kin born and die. He wondered if it carried on in their blood. Or if like the Starks he was destined to die a foolish, young, and violet death. He supposed he shouldn’t think like that. Not when he had the life he had in his hands. 

He scratched Ghost’s ears again, the wolf now standing at his side, scowling down at his dragon brothers. “I suppose it should not matter. There are more important things occurring than my nameday.” He continued to lean on the wall for a bit longer, watching the dragons, mesmerized by their graceful movements for creatures so large.

Ghost nudged his hand and he nodded, backing away from the wall and going back into the large solar that served as his office when on Dragonstone. He sank into a seat and flicked through some scrolls, but he was restless. He glanced beneath the large black obsidian desk, flicking open one of the secret panels, where he found Lyella hiding, giggling behind her hands. 

“You are not very good at hiding Princess Lyella.”

“Your turn!” she exclaimed, clamoring out of the desk. She crawled up into his lap, smelling faintly of the lemon cakes she’d devoured earlier, her pale skin flushed from the excitement of hiding and waiting for him to find her. She picked up a scroll, pointing to the sigil. “Manderly.”

He nodded, casting the merman aside. “And this one?”

“Hightower.”

“This one?”

She grinned wide, lifting up the parchment from his sister. “Stark!” 

He chuckled, lifting his eyebrows and picking up one, thinking it might stump her. “Ah, but can you tell what this one is?” 

The little frown that knit her dark brows together and pursed her lips was all her mother. He nuzzled her curls, waiting for an answer while she pondered the image on the parchment. She pointed. “That is a wolf.”

“Aye.”

“And a dragon.”

“Aye.”

“Hmm,” she murmured. She waited a moment and he grinned when she put it together. “That’s mine!”

He grinned, hugging her tight. “Aye, that is your sigil.” The sigil of Crown Princess Lyella of Houses Targaryen and Stark. They had agreed to give her a sigil of her own, blending together the equal parts of wolf and dragon making its way through her veins. She was the blood of both, he thought. He handed her the stamp and poured some hot wax from the little burn on the edge of the desk, gesturing for her to stamp the seal. 

She did, with gusto, almost shaking the desk. “Mine!”

“All yours.” 

It was something they got her for her nameday. She giggled. “I am five years, Papa.”

“You are.”

“Can I ride Drogon by myself now?”

“No, I am afraid not.” They had tried to explain to her that a dragon only had one rider and right now Drogon’s rider was her mother. Rhaegal was his, and maybe Viserion would be hers one day, as he had no one right now. He picked up a quill, passing it to her. “Perhaps let us work on your letters, if you are not in lessons right now? Write your name.”

Very slowly she began to scratch out her name. “Papa?”

“Aye?”

“When will it be my nameday again? I want more presents.”

He rolled his eyes; naturally she would like more presents, but that was because her various aunts, uncles, and assorted family members of the Dothraki and Unsullied had gifted her with far too many things. “Your name day is in another year, you just had yours.”

“Oh.” She put the finishing touches on the ‘a’ at the end of her name and peered up, violet eyes blinking owlishly. She was thinking. “Papa?”

“Hmm?”

“When is Mama’s nameday?”

He chuckled. “In several months.”

“Oh.” He was kind of expecting her to ask when his was, but she kept up her writing, no longer saying anything, but began to hum to herself. He sighed, his grip tightening around her as he gazed out at the dragons circling around beside the tower.

~/~/~/~

“Your Grace!”

Jon stopped on the winding staircase leading down to the training yards, wishing to go practice in peace, but it seemed Tyrion Lannister had other plans. He masked his annoyance, turning only slightly and pausing on the rampart while the Hand of the Queen hurried to meet him. He glanced sideways, watching the Dothraki on the beach take their horses through a series of darting moves. It looked like the horses were dancing. 

He watched it for a few more moments, until Tyrion came to his side. “Yes?” he asked.

“A raven from Storm’s End for you.”

“And you had to hurry down to catch me for that?” he wondered, taking the scroll and unfurling it, smirking at the writing from his sister. _Lady of Storm’s End._ He was the only one who could call her that, anyone else risked a knife in their jugular. He wondered if she was wishing him a happy nameday; the ravens from Storm’s End took only half a day to reach Dragonstone.

He studied the writing. It was just a request that he send Lyella to Storm’s End in due time because she realized it had been _weeks_ since she had seen her niece and she did not trust the training he was giving her to suffice. Suffice for what, he didn’t know, as he had no plans for his daughter to be in any sort of war or battle. Seven hells, _he_ did not want to be in a war or battle at any point either. “Thank you, was that it?” he asked, glancing at Tyrion.

Tyrion frowned. “Her Grace is not taking any advisers today?”

“If that was what she indicated then no, I suppose not.”

“I see. We have to prepare for her Mereeneese journey.”

He did not like the idea of Dany traveling all that way, but she said it was necessary to remind the people of Dragon’s Bay of her presence, the former masters had to remember that she still existed across the Narrow Sea to bring fire and blood if they returned to their old ways. He knew she was also planning on stopping in a few of the Free Cities to remind them as well; she’d successfully convinced Volantis to begin staging out the concept of slavery. 

_They can live in the new world or die in their old one._

He chuckled at the memory of his fierce wife saying those words to him when he’d asked her why she was so insistent on the journey. He nodded to Tyrion, folding the raven message from Arya and slipping it into his pocket. “I am sure she will be ready in due time, leave her be.”

“Is there something I should know about?” Tyrion wondered.

He was not sure what that was supposed to mean, so he shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“She has been very…reclusive today.”

 _Maybe she’s planning something for my nameday._ She’d done it before. He darted his gaze up to the massive opening on the side of the castle which he knew was the open wall in the Chamber of the Painted Table, half expecting to see her watching them. He shook his head, glancing back to Tyrion. “Well I am not sure why, but perhaps you should just leave her be.”

Tyrion did not seem to like this answer. “I am her Hand; it is my business to be in…well…her business.”

His eyes flashed; he had other thoughts about what Tyrion should be involved in. He still did not trust the man after some of the grievous mistakes that had occurred in the wars leading up to the conclusion of the Battle of the Two Queens, as the bards were calling the fight between Dany and Cersei. He smirked. “Leave her be Tyrion.” He waited a moment, before dropping the sword, so to speak. “I say that as the King, not as the Bastard of Winterfell.”

The reminder to the Hand that he was in fact the King, was sometimes necessary. Tyrion nodded, taking a step backwards and waving his hand carelessly. “Of course, _Your Grace._ ” He smiled again. “Not bad for the Bastard of Winterfell, I would say.”

Jon glanced over the short wall to watch the Dothraki battle each other, wishing he was down there, hoping he could be once he rid himself of Tyrion. “Not bad at all, I guess.” He shot a smirk over his shoulder. “Dwarf of Casterly Rock.”

Tyrion rolled his eyes and turned. “I will leave you.” He paused, frowning. “I seem to recall Her Grace saying something about this day, the twenty-sixth of the final month of the year…do you know what that was?”

 _My name day_ , he thought idly. He shook his head, pushing away from the wall and heading back down the stairs. “Nope, could not tell you.”

“Oh well, I am sure it will come to me.” 

_I hope not._ “See you later Tyrion, do not bother her,” he warned one more time, taking off down the stairs when he saw the Dothraki remove their bows and arrows to practice on horseback. That was his favorite thing and he was _not_ going to miss it because Tyrion wanted to chat.

~/~/~/~

“ _Mai_ are you hungry?”

“No darling, I am sorry, you eat your food.” Dany rummaged some papers around beside her place setting at the family supper table, set up in one of the rooms that overlooked the bay. She glanced sideways to him, tapping at his wrist. “Aren’t you hungry?”

He shook his head, not interested in the spread laid out before them. It was too much food for him, but it was mostly for Lyella, who was making her way steadily through her plate, having to consume enough to make up for all the energy she expended on a daily basis, which was more than some armies did in battle. He looked over at his daughter, who was gnawing on a chicken bone like a wolf. “Not really, you eat though.”

She shook her head, making a bit of a face, pushing her plate away. “I’m not hungry at the moment.” She lifted up her goblet of wine, bringing it to her lips, but did not drink, too busy frowning at him. “Are you alright? You have been off all day today.”

It really should not bother him. It never had in the past. They had never actually _forgotten_ it. All those years at the Wall namedays didn’t matter. He woke up, relieved he was still alive, and went about it like any other day. Perhaps it was because these last few years with her he’d gone soft. He’d become like Sansa, demanding they celebrate an entire week just for her. Or close enough to it. 

He at least expected some _acknowledgment_ from his wife of all people! 

Well if she would not remember, he supposed it did not matter. He knew he had to remember hers. The last day of the third month of the year. Gods help him if he didn’t, he remembered even Arya losing it when someone forgot her nameday. It was a women thing, he remembered Theon explaining to Robb, when they’d wondered why Ned was in trouble for forgetting Catelyn’s nameday, when they were children. Gods that seemed ages ago, he thought.

“Mai, I want my nameday again.”

Dany scanned through another missive from someone, passing it over to him to read. He glanced at the scrawling handwriting of Sam, rolling his eyes and knowing it was a subtle complaint about his new position as the Maester at Castle Black. He was still upset that they had sent him back there, to serve as Maester until such time they could get a permanent one. He set it aside, intending to write back tomorrow. “You want your nameday again?” he echoed.

“Yes, I want more presents.”

“You know that is not the purpose of namedays,” Dany reminded her. She smiled. “They are to celebrate the day you came into the world.”

“And when did I come into the world Mai?”

“Five years and three days ago,” she chuckled. 

“Can you tell me how I was born?”

He smiled as Dany told their daughter of her birth story, of how she had come into the world screaming and squalling like the winds outside of the castle walls, a true Targaryen, born in the worst storm they had seen in decades. “Not since my birth,” she finished. She tapped her daughter’s nose. “Except your birth was a snowstorm, at the end of winter, my little Lyella Snowborn.”

Lyella grinned, glancing over to him. “Papa?”

“Hmm?” He wondered if she was going to ask about his birth story. To be honest it was not the greatest of stories. Could not be wound into a fantastical tale like Dany’s. It was pretty sad, to be honest. Death of three of the realm’s greatest knights at the hands of Ned Stark and Howland Reed, all to protect him from certain death. Ultimately his mother died, his uncle took him North and his story really began years later. He was not sure he was ready to tell it yet to Lyella. 

She cocked her head, briefly smiling. “Nothing. Can I go play now?”

“You most certainly cannot, not after supper,” Dany answered. She pushed back from the table, wincing slightly and touched her forehead, waving at the table. “Jon, call someone to take this away the sight of it is making me nauseous. Come now Lyella, I’ll get you your bath.”

He leaned back in his seat, watching his girls walk off, Lyella chattering again about how she wanted her nameday because she liked the cake so much. He sighed, picking up a berry tart from one of the plates, spinning it in his fingers, murmuring to himself. “Happy nameday to me.”

~/~/~/~

It seemed the day would end without anyone acknowledging it. He had come to terms with it, moved on honestly, it really didn’t matter. Three and thirty years, he thought, staring up at the ceiling, at the etchings of dragons in the obsidian. There were times he wondered if Aegon had stared at the same etchings, from this same bed. Aegon managed to make it pretty far in his life. How no one had managed to kill him was beyond Jon.

He rolled onto his side, lightly touching Dany’s bare shoulder, her face buried in her pillow, soft snores lightly blowing her hair from her lips. He pulled the strands back, lest they strangle her in her sleep. She’d been exhausted, abnormally so, after they finished putting Lyella down for the evening. He’d pushed her to bed, over her objections, and she’d fallen asleep quite quickly after her head hit the pillow.

They were pretty set in their old age now, he supposed, his fingers lightly tracing patterns over her shoulder. Dany was only a year younger than him. Yet it felt like they’d already lived a thousand lifetimes. 

_A thousand more to go_ , he thought, smiling to himself. He dragged his thumb over a scar on her spine, a holdover from the War Against the Dead. She’d taken a spear from a White Walker, knocking her off Drogon. He thought he had lost her that night. Years ago now. Well, about six. Lyella was but an unknown in her belly at the time, they learned of her a few weeks later.

He kissed the scar, his arm slipping down around her waist, nuzzling into her neck, bringing her back against him. She mumbled, her head shifting. “Jon,” she sighed, her fingers lacing through his, squeezing against her abdomen. She heaved another breath. “I am sorry I have been a mess today.” 

It was fine, he was going to say so, when she jerked up, her loose silver braids and the free strands of hair almost lashing him with the force of which they whipped around, her violet eyes wide, surprised and dismayed. She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh Jon! I am so sorry!”

“Sorry?” 

She was crestfallen, her hands reaching back towards him. He sat up to meet her, chuckling as she wrapped her arms tight around his neck. “Your nameday!” she howled, her fingers clutching at his hair. “Oh Jon I am so sorry, I completely forgot it was your nameday!”

“Dany, it’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he murmured, kissing her head idly as he stroked her back, comforting her. He felt tears on his shoulder, pulling back so he could frame her face with his hands, smoothing his thumbs over her cheekbones, wiping at the wetness. He touched his forehead to hers. “Shh, you’re too hard on yourself.”

“Gods Jon, I am just a mess…I was going to tell you when I was sure, but…I _know_ it is true, and I hope it is enough to make up for…gods I cannot believe… _forgetting_ your nameday!” She cupping his jaw in her hands, her smile wavering through the tears. “I know why I have been a mess.”

 _Yeah so do I._ “You’re working too hard,” he chastised. He did not need her to say it. It was too much sometimes. He lightly kissed her. “You are trying to keep the realm together, work on this big trip to Meereen, and still be a mother. It is difficult. Besides, my nameday is not important to me. I mean…yeah I wondered if _anyone_ was going to remember but Dany seriously…”

“Jon you were all but _forgotten_ as a child, it is important to celebrate your birth,” she said, pulling her hands away and gripping his. She folded them together, set in her lap, the tears dry on her cheeks, but her smile still wavering. “I just cannot believe I _forgot_ and so soon after Lyella’s!”

Honestly that was a reason why he figured it had been forgotten. So soon after Lyella’s, hard to remember his as well, he thought with a soft chuckle. He wrapped her back into his arms, her head resting on his shoulder as he fell back into the pillows and furs, with her tangled around him. “Dany it was fine, I swear it. I spent the day with my daughter, did not have to deal too much with Tyrion, got to train with the Dothraki…honestly, nothing could be better.” 

He did not need to finish that he was lying in bed with her in his arms. That was gift enough. It was more than he’d ever dreamed he could have on any of his namedays growing up. He ran his fingers through her curls, tangling them up, one of his favorite pastimes. She sighed, her breath warm on his neck, her lips finding his pulse and pressing a hard kiss. “I just feel so bad, but…I think I can make it up to you.” Her hand gripped his, dragging it beneath the furs and guiding it towards her stomach.

“Dany, we don’t have to…” He really was not sure why he was denying her, so he closed his mouth, but she stilled his hand over her belly, pressing his fingers wide over the warm stretch of skin. He kissed her again, firmer this time, albeit a bit confused. He furrowed his brow, forehead still against hers. “What’re you doing?”

A soft giggle escaped her. “Why I have been so out of sorts. Exhausted, moody, and nauseous…appetite all messed up.” She used her free hand to stroke lightly on his face. Her violet eyes were soft, filled with love. She lifted her brows. “Happy nameday Jon.”

His hand pressed harder to her belly, feeling the slight swell, the hardness there. _Just like with Lyella._ He grinned, leaning to kiss her, swallowing her low moan and rolling her into the pillows, his arms snaking tighter around her. _Another baby._ “I love you,” he whispered against her mouth. 

“Hmm, I am still sorry I forgot.”

Jon really could have cared less at this point. He gripped her tighter, her heartbeat thudding against his. “Don’t be. It was actually kind of the best day.” 

“Well I am glad.”

“But you know I won’t forget yours; you wouldn’t let me.”

She groaned. “Gods Jon, don’t rub it in.”

He chuckled. “Should we also make this one of Lyella’s late nameday gifts?”

“No, she will be asking for one every single year if we do.” Would that be such a bad idea, Jon wondered, closing his eyes and cuddling her tighter. She kissed him once more. “Happy nameday Jon. May we have many, many more.”

And that, he thought, was probably the best gift of all. More days with her, he could not ask for more than that.

_**fin.** _

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.


End file.
